Friday, January 30, 2015

So there’s this guy I see on the way to lunch every day who
I called Mullet Man when I first saw him, back in July of last year. Mullet Man
had one of those really long in the back really short in the front haircuts that
you see guys living in single wide trailers in back of their mama’s house
sporting. There he was walking down the road with a twelve pack of beer in a
Wal Mart plastic bag, hoofing it along the highway, in the middle of some
really warm weather. The slope of the shoulder caused some instability in his
walking, that and he was wearing flip flops, and I almost stopped to suggest
that he break the twelve pack into two sixes and use two bags but I will never
suggest someone get another plastic Wal Mart bag for any reason.

Mullet Man evolved. I saw him a couple of months ago on a
bike, a bicycle that is, and he had the twelve pack hanging off one of the
handle bars and that was really causing him to steer erratically. But even when
I saw him without the beer he seemed ill at ease on the bike. He’s a young guy,
in his early twenties somewhere, and there was a time everyone road a bike and
everyone was good at it, too. But he steers like he’s navigating a mine field
during a hailstorm while having to pee really badly. Mullet Man has no skills
on two wheels.

With the advent of much cooler weather, Mullet Man has
allowed his hair to grow out uniformly and he is now sporting The Epic Beard.
We’ll still call him Mullet Man because Mountain Man suggests manhood to some
degree or another and anyone who rides to Wal Mart on a bike to get a twelve
pack of Natty hasn’t reached the Age Of Reason quite yet. Call me judgmental,
but getting a car would be much higher on my list of things to spend money on
rather than cheap beer.

If this story could get any stranger, and it could you know,
I saw Mullet Man on his bike, with The Epic Beard, and he was holed up against the
rain under the awning of a small store. It was raining nails and hammers and the
thought occurred to me that Mullet Man had no beer on him. Would he get beer at
the small store or would be continue the quest for Natty O’ Wally? Of course, I
could have stopped and offered to help, but again, helping someone buy cheap
beer from Wal Mart isn’t exactly doing that person a world of good, is it?

I stopped at the cheap gas station on the way home that day
and it was still coming down like the water was pissed off at someone for
sleeping with its wife. I was going to take the back roads because when it’s
raining like this only people like me take the back roads. I drive slowly and
even more slowly during hurricane and biblical floods. Mullet Man had taken
refuge there, and made it another three or four miles, but he was in a world of
hurt. He has to cross over an overpass to get to the next bit of sidewalk and
there’s a half mile of busy four lane blocking his way. Wal-Mart, mythical land
of cheap beer and infinite Chinese Plastics, is still a couple of miles away. I
have no idea how he plans to navigate back home once it gets dark, but as it
stands right now, he’ll either have to buy more expensive cheap beer, turn away
from the Promised Land, or press on, at the risk of his life.

This is where I sit in my truck and realize there are things
I will do for dogs that I just cannot bring myself to do for people. I’ll stop
in the middle of nowhere and pick up a smelly little stray dog and wind up
losing my life’s savings trying to cure it of cancer but I won’t give Mullet
Man a ride. This seems like a really bad idea the more I think about it. First
off, I see this guy every day, more or less, and if he sees me as
transportation, it will end poorly for me. Second, his quest is not worth his
life but he doesn’t realize it. Or maybe he believes his life is worth risking
for a twelve pack and that’s not damage I know how to undo. At the moment he’s
standing there, pressed up against the wall with nothing but a bicycle to shield
him from rain that’s falling an inch an hour, soaking wet with The Epic Beard,
does it not occur to him that he’s in a bad, bad, space?

There’s never been a stray who I have picked up that didn’t
display some sort of happiness and gratitude for having its position relieved.
Yet I have this feeling if I offered Mullet Man a ride back home he would
protest and ask if I wouldn’t take him forward on his way. He’s made it so
terribly close to the finish line, time is running out on daylight, and what
happens if he doesn’t get his beer? A twelve pack a day is a pretty serious, or
an ugly serious habit. It reeks of someone giving him beer money each day, like
an allowance of sorts, and this is the way he intends to spend his money and
his life. You can’t say that about dogs. They intend to live as large as they
can, given who they live with.

I stop before pulling into traffic and look back at him
through the rearview mirror. The rain pounds the truck as if my truck is an affront
to water everywhere and my wipers go full on to try to stem the falling tide.
Mullet Man pushes himself back harder against the wall and I pull away into the
storm.

Midnight, you come and pick me upNo headlightsLong drive, could end in burning flames or paradiseFade into view, it's been a while since I have even heard from youI should just tell you to leave cause IKnow exactly where it leads but IWatch us go round and round each time

You got that James Dean day dream look in your eyeAnd I got that red lip classic thing that you likeAnd when we go crashing down, we come back every time.Cause we never go out of styleWe never go out of style

You got that long hair, slicked back, white t-shirt.And I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt,And when we go crashing down, we come back every time.Cause we never go out of styleWe never go out of style.

So it goesHe can't keep his wild eyes on the roadTakes me homeLights are off, he's taking off his coatI say I heard that you been out and about with some other girlSome other girlHe says, what you've heard it's true but ICan't stop thinking about you and II said I've been there too a few times

Cause You got that James Dean day dream look in your eyeAnd I got that red lip classic thing that you likeAnd when we go crashing down, we come back every time.Cause we never go out of styleWe never go out of style

You got that long hair, slicked back, white t-shirt.And I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt,And when we go crashing down, we come back every time.Cause we never go out of styleWe never go out of style.

Take me homeJust take me homeJust take me home

You got that James Dean day dream look in your eyeAnd I got that red lip classic thing that you likeAnd when we go crashing down, we come back every time.Cause we never go out of styleWe never go out of style

Monday, January 26, 2015

Tyger Linn slips into the darkness, invisible and silent,
and even her footfall makes no sound. I am blind. There is no need for sight
for if I can see that means whoever it is out there can see also, and this is
my maze, my jumble of human things, and my home. I pull the hammer back slowly
and the metallic click sounds like a ten feet long piece of rail dropped from
the ceiling of a cathedral. I wait for the explosion that will come with the
dogs’ barking but there is no sound but my breathing. I take a deep breath and
wait. There is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, but there is something
that feels wrong here.

Twin predators from the deepest part of the ocean slip past
me on either side, brushing against my legs, causing me to steady myself against
the door jamb as Lucas and Lilith glide out of the darkness and disappear
again. I can see the lighthouses, the blue green numbers that tell me it is far
deeper into the morning than I would wish. How did we get here? Why is it we
need light on all of our appliances to tell us what time it is? Do we really
need to know that often? Children and the elderly ask what time it is because
for one it is a new experience and for the other there is so very little left
to talk about. But there is something here, something inside of the house, and
time doesn’t mean anything at all anymore.

I can see the shadow of the pistol in my hand against the
twin glare of the clocks. Insanely, I remember when I was working in construction
as a teenager and I hated how my hands looked. They were smooth and white while
the older workers’ hands were gnarled and reddish colored. There were scars and
scrapes while my hands looked brand new and unused. There was a man whose right
hand contained two fingers that didn’t work. His thumb and index finger and his
middle finger were all that was left after a nerve was severed by a saw. Yet he
was still a hundred times better a carpenter than I could be if I had twice as
many fingers that worked perfectly. My arm tires from holding the gun but the
adrenaline is roaring through my veins and skull. There is someone here.

Lilith’s growl cuts through my thoughts and the darkness as
if someone had turned on the lights. It’s a searing and bright vocalization
that declares her intent for slaughter and leaves no hint for quarter. It’s not
a warning but a promise of violence with extreme prejudice. The sound is a low
and guttural thing, primal and basic. This is the dark sun whose invisible heat
boils away the flesh and blood and reveals the glistering and dry bones of the
moment. Lilith goes silent having said all that will be said. The issue is no
longer one of communication.

Tyger Linn takes up a position at my right. I hear the
tiniest of sounds and I know it is her. If it were Lucas I would be able to see
his hand silhouetted against the starlight outside. Lucas is at the door, a
full frontal assault has to go through Lucas before it gets inside, but there
is something already here. It occurs to me that Lucas means to not only prevent
any help arriving for whatever is inside, but he means to block the exit.

There is a sound. It’s the sound of friction, like someone’s
shoe scrapping the floor as they shift their weight. It’s a sound that is
totally human and alien in the natural world. Lucas gives a voice to the
moment, loud, braying, and for just a fraction of a second it is the whole
world. It’s a sound, a war cry, an alarm, a call to arms, it is everything that
he has in his soul that pulls his sisters into war with him, a declaration that
the life of that voice must be extinguished totally and all things must cease
or the reason for that clarion annihilated. Lilith’s cry sounds instantly, a
lifetime later, and Tyger Linn, a veteran of wars unknown, now defends her
home, her family, and there is no fear in her.

I step out into the open and now the gun is light in my
hands and now I know that whatever is here has been surrounded and attacked and
no human being could hope to withstand the pack without a gun and Lucas’ snarl
rips through the black as if he’s engaged the enemy with everything he owns.

Then there is silence.

I sit up in bed and listen to the sounds of The Three, deep
in sleep. My breath comes in gulps and I can feel my heart convulsing in my
chest. Tyger Linn slips off the bed and into the darkness and I wait and wait,
but she returns, hardly a weight shifted as she gains the surface of the bed
again, and Tyger snuffles my face.

There is nothing here but the night and whatever has seeped
out of the world within my own and out into the night. It occurs to me, after I
can breathe again, I never knew a man with a half hand.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

One of the unintended consequences of living with three
large dogs is having to do a lot of laundry. There are three mutt blankets that
stay on the floor and I cover the bed with two large white sheets that need
changing every third day or every day if it’s been raining and it has been
raining. So the washing machine stays full most of the time but the dogs all
keep warm and dry, and they have a clean bed to sleep on. So do I, but that’s a
secondary consideration.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a stray and have
to live on the streets. But imagine the difference between that and then
suddenly you’re sleeping on the inside of a heated house and you’re sleeping on
top of a bed. Tyger Linn is slowly but surely making the transition between a
stray to a member of my family. She’s more polite now about surrendering the
spot next to me when Lilith or Lucas gets there first. She doesn’t chase
misfired treats that the others might have missed. Tyger Linn is learning how
to operate safely inside of a pack oriented home without fear of losing a meal
or a place to sleep. She now eats out of the bowl that once belonged to Sam, in
Sam’s old place, just as Lucas is eating out of Bert’s bowl in Bert’s old
space. This is where former strays come to live and be fed. So it has been and
so it will be.

Hell, it was a decade or so ago when I discovered that
washing a lot of stuff at one time in a washing machine can cause the “Agitator
Dogs” to strip out. That screw looking device in your washing machine is the
agitator. As it turns it drags clothes from the top to the bottom in an endless
cycle so all the clothes get moved around during washing. The agitator is moved
by a cogged gear moving back and forth and the dogs are what grips the cogs and
causes the agitator to turn. But because if it went round and round without
stopping the clothes would get wrapped around it, the agitator only turns partially
then releases. I think this is how it all works. I’m mechanically reclined. Anything
that needs repair is in no danger from me.

Honestly and truly, anything that involves tools or fine
motor skills is beyond me. I am the double amputee of a handy man. I don’t know
which end of the screwdriver to plug in. Someone once watched me trying to
drive nails into something and remarked that if anyone was found beaten to
death with a hammer I was safe from being a suspect. However long it takes your
average person to repair something triple that time and add an hour when I
begin.

Suddenly, as I write this, it occurs to me there might be a
reason why I am still single. Not only am I nearly useless around the house
with tools, I just realize that my ineptness when it comes to fine motor skills
light extend past appliances. Wow, talk about an epiphany I could have lived
without having…

So back to the washing machine, please.

The last time I did this, as I mentioned, and I am referring
to the washing machine repair, try to focus please, I got the parts from Benny
Cole. He was once the foremost authority on appliance repair on planet earth
and it is a shame he retired. Benny had a lot to say, however, and it took him
nearly as long to make a sale as it does for me to fix something. But the man
did teach me a lot about what goes wrong and why when it comes to washers.

The process of any repair job requires that I photograph
everything as it looks before I start. From every angle I take shots of the
agitator so when I get it all back together I can tell if it’s right. Then I
pry the top off the agitator, did you know that piece came off, and then there
is another cap inside of that. That comes off and lo! There’s the one single
bolt holding the dogs and the cog and the agitator in place. It stares at me
like the Eye Of Sauron.

There is something about this bolt that is worrisome but I
have forgotten what it might be. I get out my box of tools and start trying out
sockets. Ah, that’s it! Whoever designed this thing made damn sure that getting
to it would be easy but getting it off would be a little harder. You have to
hold the agitator still and you have to have a 7/16ths socket or nut driver. As
it turns out, I just happen to own a nut driver at the 7/16ths range. Most
people likely do not. The people who built this damn thing are hoping someone
will strip off the head of the bolt trying to get it off and have to call a
repair man.

So I take photos of the bolt, take photos of the guts of the
dogs and cog and I have to clean the dog hair off all the stuff inside. Gee,
where did that come from, huh? To make all of this work, however, you have to
hold the cog and the dogs tightly against the bottom of the agitator as you
replace it. That takes manual dexterity.

Here’s the weird thing in all of this. While I was working
on this a woman called me and because I like her a lot, she makes me nervous. She’s on speaker phone while I’m trying to get
all of this stuff on and to get it right and at the same time, try not to sound
like a simple repair job is going to vex me. The first attempt fails because
one of the dogs slip out of position. But the next shot finds everything neatly
in place. Total time, whoa… less than five minutes.

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

When a very good friend of mine put her GSD down, finally, I
took a deep breath and released it. The dog was very far past the point where I
would have done something. But this wasn’t my dog. I knew both owner and dog,
the owner for over twenty years and the dog for all of his life in that home,
yet I was hesitant about speaking my mind on a subject that is far more
personal than sex, politics, or religion. When the time comes to kill a pet
that you’ve lived with for well over a decade it’s between you and dog.

I feel slightly irresponsible at this very moment. Sam is
dead, and that’s bad enough, but the day before he died I spoke with two people
on the subject of having him put down. Having asked those two people for an
opinion I was given the same answer; it is time. Looking back I realize that it
had been time for quite some time. The sense of relief in my home is
incredible. I think that everyone was suffering Sam’s madness with him. I think
we were all pushed to the point where something had to happen. I think I hung
on to who Sam was and ignored who he had become.

Another friend of mine hung onto her dog well past the point
of reason and I think that after we buried him she understood the consequences
of hanging on. I remember being at the verge of speaking to her about her dog
and retreating from it. As I buried the body that Sam once inhabited I
remembered that was the last dog I had buried before Sam died. That dog’s name
was Frank.

Frank was a Border Collie’s Border Collie. He was everything
the breed is supposed to be and he was a lot more than he needed to be. A troubled
dog, very much like Sam, Frank made everyone’s life miserable because he wanted
to herd something, someone, anyone, anything, and it was a little too much at
time. But I loved Frank. Franks was a great animal when he wasn’t being the
Border Collie from Hell. I had to go under the house to get Frank and I wonder
how many people he would have allowed to drag him out from under that house?
Frank never offered to bite me and didn’t resist. His body had failed him and
he could not stand, but he knew me, Frank loved me, so he didn’t fight me.

Frank looked at me, he made eye contact with me as the
needle slipped into his vein, and I wondered, and I still wonder, what Frank
was trying to tell me.

Romeo the cat went down fighting, scratching, biting, and
yowling. The orange tabby was at Death’s Door even without the vet’s needle but
he was a cat. Romeo was going, if he was going, he was going to go on his own
terms, on his feet, and he was going to go fighting, and he did. But just like
Frank, Romeo looked up at me and held my gaze, speaking to me without words
before he died.

These are my last words on this subject for a while. I’ve
extinguished the fire that has burned in me the last few days. I have said everything
I need to say. The outpouring of support for me during this time has been an
incredible experience. But there comes a time, as we have recently learned, for
everything. It is time for me to sit down in front of a keyboard and write
again. It’s time to start wondering who is going to fit into the Foster Crate
again. If there is a time to die there is a time to live. That time is always,
always, always, right now.

Before Sam started aging, and even after his mobility
started to suffer, Sam was a Happy Hound. I had almost forgotten what that was
like, I had forgotten a lot of the good times because the last year or so Sam
was an emotional wreck. His aggressive behavior towards other dogs stretches
back to when he tried to kill Lucas in 2009. He took a shot at Lilith in 2013
and she nearly killed him. His repeated attacks on Tyger were going to lead to
a very bad end. My vet and I had already talked about it. I contacted one of
the best dog people I knew and she and I were going to have a nice long talk
about what was possible and what was probable. Sam stepped out of the picture
and didn’t leave me with a decision to make, and perhaps, that was his last
gift to me.

I had to get out of the house yesterday and it was a relief
not to have to worry about someone being killed while I was gone. I hated the
thoughts I had even as I had them but they were thoughts born of the truth of
things; Sam couldn’t be trusted anymore. His behavior was bad and it was
getting worse. I keep saying this and maybe it’s to make me feel better about
not being wrecked the way I was when Bert died, but Sam wasn’t Sam anymore.

When I got home yesterday afternoon Lucas, Lilith and Tyger
greeted me and then we all went out into the backyard and took a walk. There
was no fighting, no snarling, no one was unhappy with what anyone else was
doing. Lilith and Lucas played and played hard, and Tyger actually sat it out
and came and sat with me. The pressure that has been taken off of Tyger is
enormous. I knew Sam was having a negative impact on her life but the relief in
Tyger is palpable. She is a lot more relaxed and she hasn’t gone off by herself
since yesterday morning. The L Hounds and Tyger seemed to have bridged a gap in
just one day.

Lucas also seems to have taken a deep breath. Even though
Loki is the oldest dog now he’s acting more puppyish than I have seen in him in
a very long time. He got up on the bed and rolled around on his back and
pretended to bite at me while I was writing. He’s more of a liquid state right
now, staying off his feet and letting Lilith crawl on his more than I remember
the two doing before.

The biggest change is in Lilith, believe it or not. Of the
three dogs left she seems, and I hate to use this word, happiest. Oddly, Lilith
seems downright ecstatic. Last night was the first night in a very long time
Lilith lay claim to the spot right beside me and she wiggled until she was as
close as possible. I have no idea what she is having this sort of reaction but
Lilith has been super affectionate in the last day. This morning all three
wanted to be petted and it was the first time in many years I have had three
dogs on the bed with me without any drama. The Tyger got excited and clawed my
face. Okay, nearly no drama.

I hate to enjoy the relief I feel that Sam is no longer a
factor in this home. Even when his health was failing he was still affectionate
and still craved affection from me. Sam never stopped loving me and I never
stopped loving Sam. But there comes a time when life is no longer being lived
it’s just being alive. There comes a time when as bad as things are they are
only going to get much worse. The end came when it was supposed to come and
this is not always the way that life is. I still look behind me for Sam when I
let the dogs out. I will still reach out into the darkness to find those ears.
I will still listen for the rattle of his breath and the movement of his legs
in the night.

But medicated into a near coma for peace is no way for a dog
to live. To live with that sort of anger and fear is no way for anyone to have
to spend their lives. And for the rest of the family, they are having no qualms
about opening up and being less tense.

I miss my dog. But he was gone for a very long time before
his heart stopped beating. The first decade of Sam’s life was the very best of
times that we shared together and that I will never forget.

Sam, Sam, the Happy Hound, was almost dead when he was
found. The Muttibeast brought him home to me, and now they’re both gone and happy
and free.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

The routine is always the same but the cold weather has
slowed it down; Lucas will be the first to stand up, he will flap his ears hard
to let everyone know it’s time, and then everyone slips off the bed one by one,
except for Lilith who will crawl over to me to be snuggled. Sam will come over
to my side of the bed and I reach out my hand to find his ears. Lilith does
kiss me but she jumps down and whines now and I can hear Lucas milling around
the room with Tyger. My hand is out in empty space. Sam can always be heard
stumbling over a stray shoe or his own feet, but he always makes his way over
to my hand that is sticking out to find his ears.

Sam.

I wait for Sam but then I realize I don’t hear him. My foot
goes out to find his mass on the bed and it isn’t there.

“Sam” the word carries in the dark room, the moonlight
coming through at a low angle, but I already know.

I turn the light on and Sam is curled up on the blanket near
the window and I silently count, one, two, three, four, five, and Sam’s side
does not move.

“Sam.”

I build a small fire for illumination and I get out the
shovel. The memories come back to me, the time he chased rats that came out of
the fire fueled by a giant mound of brush, and Sam and the owls hunted together
in the darkness. An hour later my muscles hurt and I wonder how this is going
to feel, to write these words that I knew that soon I would.

Sam is dead.

The body slumps into the grave and I know it’s deep enough
because I hear a small splash. The water table is way up now. I fill the grave
in layers, tamping down, making sure that nothing digs Sam up again, I couldn’t
bear it. I put the same old gate I used to cover Bert’s grave over Sam’s and
weigh it down with some fence posts.

Sam knew more about the gods that run the Universe than I
and he certainly knew more about Hell. Sam knew more about Hell because for the
first part of his life he lived it. The abuse heaped upon the puppy that would
become Sam was horrifying. I have never seen anything like it before or since.
Sam knew more about gods because he know nothing at all, which is more than
those who claim to know something. But if there are any gods out there, and
love and happiness and loyalty and wanting to be petted on a dog’s head means
anything, if anything that dog went through and still came out wanting to love
us people, if it means anything to anyone out there at all, please, take care
of Sam’s weary soul. Forgive me for not being able to heal the harm he had
suffered and please know that with my own injured mind and unwell hands, I
offer his body to the earth, and his soul to love.

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Tyger’s morning began has it has for the last twenty-eight
days; I get up to make coffee and she goes out with the other dogs to pee, and
to get water. When she first got here Tyger would stand close to the backdoor
and come in much sooner than the rest of the dogs. Now Tyger charges out into
the early morning dark and does a perimeter search, just as Bert did when he
was alive. But this day is different for Tyger, even if she doesn’t realize it.
At the moment she awoke she was still a foster dog but if all goes well, Tyger
will be a family member at the end of the day. She will be mine, she will be
ours, and Tyger will be home for the first time in her life.

Tyger is a Pit Bull. There are no mistakes a Pit Bull can
make and survive in a shelter. All things must go right. Nothing can go wrong.
Death is the only answer to all questions that are asked of this breed. The
just and the unjust die in mass. The shape of their heads doom them to a very
short life unless someone loves them. Tyger was on Death Row when I saw her
photo. There was no way out, no one to protect her, and this was a dog who
would be cold before the sun rose again. Like millions before her and millions
after her, this was a dog who would die unloved and unclaimed.

I remember the moment I saw her. I remember thinking to
myself that I had three dogs; one rescue and two strays. Sam is elderly and psychotic.
I had been told I could not have two female pits in the same pack and have
peace. I was told, when I was a child, I could not write. Hold her for me, I
will take this dog, I will not allow her to die.

It never occurred to me, until much later, that an email
sent to one person could and would save this dog. My word, my reputation, my
work in rescue, my email, was enough. Someone, and I do not know who, sent word
to pull this little girl off Death Row, to remove the needle from her future,
and to send her to a vet who would spay her, and she would wait to see if I
would show up and save her life.

Whoever you are, if you are reading this: thank you.

How many dogs sit and wait for someone, anyone, and that
never happens? How many dogs await for the return of those they love and death
arrives instead? What would have happened to this dog if I would have just
stayed home instead? She was put in a cold cage. There was no one who would
come unless I arrive in time. When I got to the vet’s office very nice people
led a very scared dog to me, and that is when I met her.

You want to know a really scary animal? Humans. We subjugate
animals and then we declare them dangerous because we invent myths about them.
A very small female Pit Bull was handed over to me late on Friday, December the
5th, because she was a Pit Bull, and no one else had come forward
and asked that she not die.

Look at the world from the eyes of Tyger, before she knew
me. She had been picked up right off the street, a stray, no home, no love, no
food, and no hope. Then she was taken into a shelter where her cell mate
attacked her. And then she was taken to the vet’s office where she was operated
on, in a place filled with strangers, and suddenly she is handed over to me,
who she has never seen before.

I took Tyger to an adoption event the next day and prayed
that no one would ask for her. No one did. I took her back to my home and there,
at that day, the real process of saving this dog truly began. There was really
no way in hell I could take another dog. Lilith seemed underwhelmed with her,
Lucas didn’t seem to like her. Sam hates everyone. And this girl dog, oh wow,
did she seem to have some problems.

She was a stray. No one, no human, ever, had trained her.
Tyger was a dog who had lived day to day for how long? You tell me, you, how
would you react to this life? If you were totally alone and you had never been
cared for, you tell me, here and now, how stable and how sane you would be. I
want to hear this story that you have for me. Tyger was plucked off the
streets, shifted over to the shelter, out into the vet’s place and then given
to me. All of this happened to her without anyone sitting down and telling her
that she was loved.

Where are Tyger’s puppies? I’m sorry did that question catch
you off guard? She’s less than eighteen months but she’s had at least, at the minimum,
one litter. Was she able to feed and take care of her offspring? Did she watch
them die slowly because she was starved? I’m sorry, did this ruin your feel
good buzz? Tyger was a mom. She had kids. I have no idea what happened to them
at all. Do you?

What do you expect? What sort of person do you think Tyger might
be considering what she has been through, no, wait, let me say this clearly;
what sort of person do you think Tyger would be considering how we humans have
allowed her to suffer?

Let’s blame Tyger. Let’s blame Pit Bulls. Let’s blame the
dogs for their owners abandoning them. Let’s considering them dangerous when
they watch their young die of starvation or worse. Let’s do anything at all but
provide the animals we’ve domesticated with a loving way of life.

Of course, we’ve failed to provide our own species with
this, haven’t we?

I have a new dog. She is hurt, hurting, lost, damaged,
hopeful, and young. I have to undo what we have done. I have to assure her that
we humans aren’t nearly as bad as she’s been trained to think we are, by us.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

“For last year's words belong to last year's
language

And next year's words await another voice.”

― T.S. Eliot

I thought that quote a bit more cheerful than Pink Floyd’s “Shorter
of breath and one day closer to death” concept, even if it is more accurate.
2014 was a very odd year and 2015 looks like it will be interesting, too. This
was my first year as a foster parent for two dogs, the first, The Puppy Wrex, I
really wanted to keep. Burke, the second foster, was nearly as bad when I had
to give him up. There really wasn’t much of a chance Tyger was going to be
adopted out. I wanted her before we met.

There’s a difference between have dogs as pets and rescuing
dogs. I make my second “Tutu Run” for BARC this year, even though one of my
knees didn’t want to run. We raised a bunch of money and it was well worth the
pain. It appears now that this may evolve into a yearly thing. As long as the
money come in dignity will have to be put on hold. The people I have met whose
passion is rescuing dogs has been a humbling event. There are those who do
more, give more, and never ask for anything in return for their efforts other
than good homes for good dogs.

I got my second tattoo in 2014 and I will get my next one
sometime soon. There are two types of people and two types of people only;
those who understand ink and those who do not. Those who understand do not need
an explanation and those who do not understand can’t hear it. But to me it is a
form of self-expression that is likely older than writing. It’s as permanent as
your skin. It’s as unique as your own body. This may be a little judgmental but
I think the ink deniers either have nothing to say or they are afraid to say it
out loud for the world to hear. For my part, there aren’t many who see my body
and those who do will understand what is there long before they see it. One
thing I do hear is the compliant as to what it will all look like when I’m
seventy. I will give less of a fuck what people think about my body at seventy
than I do now, I suspect, but call me in sixteen years and we’ll talk. I’ll
show you my new ink.

It’s nearly two years to the day I was in a minor wreck. It
was a scary thing not knowing if I was hurt or seriously injured. It gave me a
greater appreciation of being in good health that I have not forgotten. I would
be at the gym right now if it was open. But I am still getting up much earlier
than the sun or for that matter, most people.

2014 saw me get my first laptop, and for the first time
since 1992, I don’t own a desktop computer. I doubt I will ever own another.
There was once a coffee shop in downtown Valdosta and I would go there at lunch
and write furiously for an hour. It was a manic sort of writing and not much
good came of it but it was a catharsis of sorts. I filled up many a page of a
small note pad but after I got home most of it was illegible. Now with a laptop
I can write anywhere at any time at all. It’s a liberating feeling to take it
with me wherever I might be. Whereas there was this irritating wait in between
things happening now I can just pull the laptop out and work on a good sentence.

Writing is public also means I get to transcribe
conversations I overhear. People, once they get engrossed in what they’re
talking about with someone else, tend to forget that there are other people,
some of them only a meter away, who can hear every word. Mostly, none of it is
interesting but sometimes people will get into darker moments of their lives
never realizing that they’ll become a piece of a story or part of a plot in
something I write. For all the distractions, Starbucks is my favorite place to
write. They’ve started blocking the electrical outlets as subtle reminders we
laptop people are not to set up shop there, but it is still a lot of fun.

I miss my desktop because it was a cool looking computer. But
just like everyone told me, once I started using a laptop I would never again
want to use anything that tied me down to one location. I thought writing on a
laptop might be too, ummm, something, but writing is the same no matter what
the medium.

All in all, 2014 was a hell of a lot better than 2013. Lucas’
cancer has not returned. It appears that I am going to get to keep my Loki
Mutt, if he can keep his face out of the mouth of snakes. I picked up Tyger, the
first fourth dog, and Sam is still trying to break the record for longest
living Firesmith Mutt. Lilith is no longer the only female in the pack and
having two female dogs is not the problem I was told it would be. So far.

2015 starts out with a day off, writing, turning the compost
pile, and maybe some running if I go into town where there’s a track. I foresee
more writing, another tattoo or two, more compost turning, more exercise, and
maybe even my first trip out of country if I am lucky. Pink Floyd was correct
of course, for we are all shorter of breath and we are all one day closer to
death. This is true until we are dead for living itself is a terminal illness.
But the new year looks no worse than the old one and perhaps if this is the
year that find me gone at the end, it will still be one of the best.

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About Me

The Non Disclaimer

My writing reflects the things I see, think, and experience, and those things in my past that have led me to be me. It is not always pretty, it is not always funny, and no one has ever made mention of my life as a Disney Movie. If sex, drugs, profanity, or a general irreverence for all things religious somehow offends you, well, there are other blogs which will satisfy your need for self assurance.